Some Nights
by forever-a-thief
Summary: Some nights are Hell on Sherlock, and he won't sleep, no matter what John says. Well, John has had enough and calls in reinforcements: Lestrade. Just some fluffy-ness and sleepy!Sherlock.


**A/N: I don't own Sherlock! Also, if this looks familiar, I also posted it at Archive of Our Own, so that may be why. Enjoy!**

John answered the door and silently let Lestrade into the flat. The two men exchanged loaded looks, then Lestrade brushed past John and stomped up the steps, finding Sherlock slumped over a microscope in the kitchen. He lifted his eyes slightly, frighteningly dark purple rings beneath them, then dismissively turned back to his experiment. Lestrade just stood in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, and gave off an air of supreme disappointment.

"And what do we owe the pleasure this time, Inspector?" Sherlock asked quietly, letting his words drawl out without a care. Lestrade just continued to glare until Sherlock released his attention from the microscope and once more placed it on Lestrade.

"You look terrible." Lestrade's voice quickly went soft. "John says you haven't slept in a while. He's worried." Sherlock scoffed and looked away.

"You don't need to call my _handler_ in to get me to sleep, John! I'm perfectly capable of resting when I need it." He grumbled the words out, then threw himself back against the chair in anger.

To tell the truth, Sherlock was feeling the thrumming beneath his skin. Some nights were just Hell on him. He wanted to sleep, but he just couldn't stop thinking long enough to calm down.

Lestrade grunted in amusement at his theatrics, then came and stood Sherlock up. He swayed slightly, then gathered his footing and turned on Lestrade. "What do you think you're doing?"

The Inspector ignored him, placing heavy hands on Sherlock's shoulders and steering him toward the bedroom down the hall. When Sherlock had been deposited before his bed, Lestrade pointed at it and employed his best Dad-voice.

"Now, get in your pyjamas, and the next time I come in here, I want you in that bed, fast asleep. Understand?"

The Dad-voice seemed to work, because Sherlock's face suddenly went very soft, making him seem like a child, and he did as he was told, moving mechanically to the dresser and bringing out a pair of pyjamas.

Lestrade left him then, keeping the door open just a crack, and wandered back to the kitchen, finding John at the stove making tea. He looked up from his task when Lestrade stepped on the creaky floor and grinned.

"It actually worked?" He sounded incredulous but thankful. "Tea?" Lestrade nodded and ran a distracted hand through his hair.

"Why call me, John?" John looked a bit sheepish, but grinned nontheless.

"He thinks very highly of you, Lestrade. And I was bum out of ideas. He hasn't slept in more than four days." Lestrade let out a low whistle, then took the offered cup of steaming hot tea. John wandered off to another room then and Lestrade was left alone for a few moments, standing awkwardly in the kitchen, not quite sure what to do with himself.

He decided to take up space in one of the chairs in the sitting room, fiddling with his coat and sipping at his tea until someone else needed him. Minutes later Sherlock wandered into the room, looking quite small and lost. Lestrade watched him carefully, setting his face somewhere between disappointed and sympathetic.

"I can't sleep," Sherlock moaned, tugging at his blue dressing gown awkwardly. His eyes were downcast and he looked ashamed and exhausted. Lestrade stood, kicking off his shoes and shruging off his coat, and took Sherlock's arm, leading him back to the bedroom. John had apparently gone to bed for the night himself.

"What are you going to do?" Sherlock whispered, a kind of mechanical fear finding its way into his words. Lestrade just patted his arm and pulled the covers back for him.

"Just lay down, Sherlock. I'm only here to help; don't worry." Sherlock visibly loosened and did as he was told, curling up on the bed and waiting for Lestrade to make the next move.

"You can't sleep, then?" Lestrade said softly, tugging the blanket up to Sherlock's chin. How he had gone from feeding the man cases to tucking him in? He shook his head to clear the thought away, and gave the wired, overexhausted man a small smile. Sherlock moaned and closed his eyes tight, rolling toward the empty spot on the bed.

Which wasn't empty for long.

Lestrade lifted the blanket and slipped in next to Sherlock, much to the younger man's surprise.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked again, fear obvious in the words now. No curiosity, just unabashed fear in the middle of the night brought on by sleep deprivation.

"How about a story, hmm?" Lestrade asked nonchalantly, wrapping an arm around Sherlock's shoulders as he scooted down the bed. Sherlock froze at the touch, but once he got used to it, he melted into Lestrade's side like butter.

Sherlock made no objection to the suggestion, so Lestrade started.

"Once upon a time. . . ,"

". . . and they lived happily ever after. There. Sleepy yet?" Lestrade looked down at the mop of curls resting on his chest. The detective had one arm strewn across Lestrade's stomach, running lazy fingers over his ribs, and another hand huddled against his own body and losing feeling with every minute left in the same position.

Lestrade ran a hand through the curls and heard Sherlock hum in contentment. He mumbled something beneath his breath that oddly sounded like, "Thank you, Greg," but Lestrade couldn't be sure. He was sure, however, that he was stuck for the forseeable future, and decided to nap a bit himself.

John woke him up later, telling him that Sherlock had finally fallen under with his help and was now running about the flat, purple circles gone and as energized as ever.

Lestrade felt Sherlock's side of the bed. It was freezing cold. Lestrade was surprised that Sherlock had allowed him to sleep at all after waking himself, but wasn't arguing and, in truth, was still deadly tired. John wandered out of the room again and Lestrade was debating with himself whether or not he should try and fall back asleep or go home when Sherlock barged through the door, carrying a tray of food.

He stood in the doorway looking a bit lost now that he had reached his destination and there was an actual person sitting there waiting for him to speak. He floundered around for words, sputtering in confusion, and finally gave up and sat the tray down with a childish grin, then turned on his heel and bounced away.

Looking from the food to the doorway, Lestrade waited for Sherlock to barge back in. When that didn't happen, Lestrade took a piece of toast and knibbled on it halfheartedly.

Minutes later, a sheepish Sherlock was peeking in, trying to hide behind the doorframe. Lestrade chuckled to himself and motioned Sherlock forward. The younger man stepped in hesitantly, then took up his side of the bed again, leaning against the pillows and pulling his knees up to his chest, never meeting the Inspector's eyes.

Lestrade knudged him softly with his shoulder and grinned. Sherlock looked up hopefully, then back away, grinning wildly. "Thank you for last night," Sherlock finally said, looking at the wall instead of the Inspector.

"Not a problem, kid." Sherlock looked up, still grinning but now also a little confused. Lestrade just shrugged. "I've got thirteen years on you, Sherlock. You are definitely a 'kid' to me."

Sherlock nodded his understanding; that seemed to make sense, even though they were both grown men. Sitting in a bed. Together. He shook his head and sighed, looking back up at Lestrade. Waiting.

Lestrade wasn't sure what Sherlock wanted him to say, but he could guess. "I'll always be here if you need me, Sherlock. All you have to do is ask." Sherlock nodded his understanding and curled up in a ball beside Lestrade. A careful arm found its way to Sherlock's shoulders and the younger man sighed contently.

John found them like that later in the day, dozing like a puppy with its father in the sun that filtered through the shades.

He thought of taking a picture to hold over their heads, but Sherlock was sleeping, and that's all that mattered.


End file.
